


Count Your Blessings

by manspirations



Series: Long Live Stackson! [8]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Holidays, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Thanksgiving Dinner, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-25
Updated: 2018-11-25
Packaged: 2019-08-29 07:01:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16739284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manspirations/pseuds/manspirations
Summary: They typically advise spending Thanksgiving with people you’re actually thankful for, you know, parents, siblings, aunts, cousins, maybe even neighbors or friends of friends. You didn’t have to like them, but you loved them enough to suffer through one communal dinner. None of that explained why Stiles was currently standing on the Whittemore’s front porch, dreading the worse meal of the century.





	Count Your Blessings

**Author's Note:**

> Ayyy, your bitch is back!! A little something to celebrate the holiday spirit and fall back into my writing. Feels like coming home, sigh.

They typically advise spending Thanksgiving with people you’re actually thankful for, you know, parents, siblings, aunts, uncles, cousins, maybe even neighbors or friends. You didn’t have to like them, but you loved them enough to suffer through one communal dinner. None of that explained why Stiles was currently standing on the Whittemore’s front porch, trying to stretch the thin fabric of his oxford from his forearms.

“Dad, don’t do that!” he bit, batting his dad’s finger away from the doorbell. The chimes, obnoxious and airy, still reverberated through the house. They struck an equally eerie Amnityville jolt through his veins.

His pops barely awarded him a glance, more like the casual flick of his right eye as he jostled with his belt. “Stiles, how else are they going to know we’re here?” he said more than asked, simultaneously sighing.

He dodged away from the parallel side windows in hopes the paneling would shield the half of him his father decided he could not, “That’s generally the point. We still have time to escape.”

He unapologetically eyed his dad as the withering man massaged his temples. What did he have to be so stressed about? This clusterfuck was 100% the old man’s fault. Not the part where they ran into Jackson and his dad at the Steakhouse. That was pure fate, albiet an evil, debase one. But, if Stiles remembered that night’s progression clearly and he had, everything after those few seconds of staunched recognition, he blamed on his father. The reluctant hellos. The invitation to combine tables. The awkward back and forth. Jackson’s dad harping something about second chances and mending broken bridges. Finally, the invitation to this night before them. If it were up to him, he'd set that bridge ablaze, cheering around the cinders before they escaped safely to their side of town.

Because of that bridge, the two of them spent prolonged seconds trying to sway the other, Stiles pleading and his dad willing him to behave with his eyes. Without looking away, his dad hovered his pointer above the doorbell again.

“Don’t you do it."

Retched chimes catapulted through the house, forcing Stiles to grumble, the urge to yank at his shirt growing even more once he heard the first floorboard creak. One thing for certain, he was never, ever letting Lydia and Kira dress him again. Before he could tell his dad as much, an alien beam illuminated above them.

“Dammit.” His hands halted against the starch fabric, too stressed to care about his dad’s ‘Language!’ admonishment. “Is it too late to start praying?”

“Stiles, Can it.” A strong palm clapped over his shoulder, gripping tighter as the metal croaked, “Now.” Wrinkles cut into his dad’s forehead whenever he really meant his words and right now, those wrinkles could be trenches.

Stiles’s last plea to leave shriveled and died a sad death, just in time for the door to open fully. He sucked in a breath, preparing himself, yet he still wasn’t ready for the sight. A groan slipping before he could reign it in. Mr. Whittemore, not a wrinkle mottling his three piece cobalt suit.

“Stilinskis,” he boomed, his open smile crackling in the space Stiles swore only frowns could go. He couldn’t help but spin around, checking the grass and porch’s roof for hidden cameras. What other reason would they have for standing here, in front of an emotionally open Mr. Whittemore? “Come in. Come in. You must be freezing out there.” He ushered them in, immediately stepping aside.

No colder than Stiles imagined the inside of this house would be. He pointedly-glared at his dad, gesturing to the threshold with a hand. When his dad gestured back, Stiles puffed, then with a cautious inch lifted his foot across the barrier. It was then that his curiosity got the best of him. He couldn’t remember ever experiencing the inside of Jackson’s house, only scowling at it from the street when they’d been forced to past it on the way to their middle school like every other bitter child.

Much like the outside, the inside illuminated sleek blacks, whites, and glass. A staircase lined the entire left of the open foyer; through glass walls, he could see it span at least three levels. His dad yanked him from venturing closer to it.

Mr. Whittemore, having disappeared to their left, materialized back into the room, two women behind them. The left carried a tray filled to the edge with glasses of different drinks, the other with treats. Mr. Whittemore snickered, his hand waving Stiles away as he added, “Go ahead and let him loose, John. I know, Jackson’s around here somewhere.” Like Stiles was a floppy puppy, boorishly desperate for a sniff of all the cool things in his path. _Let him loose._

Groaning, he still used the opportunity to escape, snagging five mini quiches from Servant #2’s tray before saluting his father. The men busied away from him, already yapping about some city projection or another. Stiles sighed when the silence return. Along with his patience and dignity.

Toeing around by himself, he guessed he could see the appeal. Namely the number of innovative gadgets he counted from foyer to the living room. He’d stopped after losing fingers. Just when he’d found his peace, a stair groaned above his head. He turned at the same time a certain someone descended the stairs, too quickly for him to make a break for it, but too slow for him to wait without coming off as a creeper.

He must have been pondering an escape route long enough for his gaze to lose focus. And when it'd snap back, he’d somehow drifted closer to the staircase and the Prince of Hell atop it, instead of away from them.  

“So eager to see me,” Jackson’s smooth voice ricocheted above them like he was standing in five places at once. “I knew you were tasting the rainbow.”

Every cell inside him wanted to sneer and bitch slap Jackson's smug face, but he'd rather endure infinity detentions with Harris than give any Whittemore, **this one especially,** the satisfaction of seeing him rattled. Drawing on years of false smiles, he leant against the banister, beaming as his gaze trickled lethargically down Jackson’s pressed white shirt and matching emerald jacket and pants, every inch of fabric stretching like he lifted 350 just to stretch them over his skin. 

And, Stiles thought his outfit was extraneous. Meeting Jackson’s defiant glimmer, he cocked a brow, “In those things,” Stiles flicked down, “The same could be said of you.”

For the barest of seconds, the guy reared back, his nostrils flaring.

“What. did. you. say?” 

The next, Stiles' body jerked off the ground, pounds of banister digging into his gut.

“Oh, did you not hear me?” Laughter fought its way upward, definitely an inappropriate reaction considering the claws puncturing holes in this godforsaken fabric. Even with all of that and the fire in Jackson’s sneer, Stiles blinked adorable innocence, “Such a visceral reaction…” If they were getting up close and personal tonight, why stop there? Voice dropping and rasping even closer, “…’m pretty sure you did.”

Right about now, the fear should be sludging through him, curling his gut and stiffening his tongue. Maybe it was his tiptoes barely scraping the ground or his face inches away from the dick he’d wish and who wished him so much humiliation and pain, but nervous chortles resurfaced, bitter and threatening. “Whose eager now?”

Jackson snarled, the hint of his canines peeking from their unknown hiding spot. Even when a singular gasp sounded to their left, neither of them had to look to know the following scampers signaled a servant on their way to snitch.

One. Two. Three.

“Boys,” Their dad’s combined warnings drifted to the front.

With a thud, he went flopping, “This isn’t over.”

“Doubtful, but we’ll see,” Stiles fluffed his jacket lapels, flinching at Jackson's retaliating buck. 

Before they reached the source of cinnamon candles and many conversations, his dinner partner swiveled back, quirking his lips and posing in those pants as if his tight pants held the secrets of the world. “Oh and pretty hurts, Stilinski.”

“Did you just...” The words gridlocked in a stammer. “...We’re sharing a timeless family tradition with someone who quotes Beyoncé. Great, just freaking fantastic.”

\---

After dinner, their dads gravitated towards the living room to talk politics and watch ESPN, holding beers in loose palms. It left him sitting there alone at the table and staring at empty plates and half-eaten platters. He considered eating a second helping of the stuffing, but decided against it. Again, that would give Jackson the satisfaction of knowing Stiles actually enjoyed the one thing crafted by his hands tonight. So, he lingered there...

Waiting for his dad to say, “Phew, I guess it’s about that time."

Hoping Whittemore Sr would demand, “Jackson, fix these gentleman food to go.”

Not wondering where the hell Whittemore Jr disappeared to the instant their fathers broke for their respective armchairs.

He scrutinized the clock, drumming his hands over the table. Twenty minutes. Thirty. Forty. Nearly an hour and thirty reblogs later, the ole chumps were still chatting like old college buds on an annual golf trip—hearty chortles fluttering from the sitting room every few minutes. With his dashboard recycling the same gifsets of the witty, new Doctor, his body started to fidget around the same time his mind grew unstimulated.

Nothing better to do, he progressed to clearing the table. Grabbing half the empty dishes, he bumbled through an open passageway he hoped was the Whittemore’s kitchen. Then, froze.

One foot over the threshold when his eyes laid on the opposite of his third wish.

Hopped up on the island, shoes kicked off, those obscene emerald pants crinkling where they shouldn’t, Whittemore Jr forking an entire Tiramisu Cheesecake with one hand and washing it down with wine in another. Good thing Stiles hadn’t expected acknowledgement cause he barely received one, only the bare tip of the bottle as Jackson scoffed around his fork.

“We hired help to do that,” Jackson roughed, his voice already slurring from the processed sugar and fermented grapes.

If questioned later, Stiles would swear he answered right away with a retort rather witty. A scathing something only someone like Stiles could come up with. But, in reality, both he and Jackson would know Stiles gaped, fingers gripped tight to the plates as if they could shield him. His own throat constricting him from exhaling, his eyes begging him to move. Any other person, literally any, could pull this and Stiles wouldn’t think twice from joining them. Hell, Malia, Scott, and he nearly did so every dinner. (One didn’t feast upon Miss McCall’s pot roast only once.) But, they were the type of kids who jumped in muddy leaf piles and didn’t immediately shower. The type of teenagers who go clothes picking in hampers, rather than closets. They didn’t own three piece suits and a different pair of jeans for everyday of the month. His mouth slammed shut after Jackson gifted him that patented head cant as if to ask what the hell Stiles was still doing in his presence.

“Yeah well, I don’t see them so you’re stuck with me,” he rushed, tripping his way to the sink.

That’s all they said to one another as Stiles cleaned _HIS_ dining room and hand washed  _THEIR_ dishes. Packing the leftovers into the fridge. The busy work lasted maybe ten minutes and then, boredom returned.

Too curious to stop himself, he relaxed against the counter opposite and observed—a la Derek style—as Jackson whirled a dollop of whipped icing around his forefinger. And with a rare clarity, held Stiles' gaze captive as he brought the finger to his mouth, tongue curling. Icing turning to liquid cream before his eyes. Stiles knew, he didn't need supernatural hearing to feel his pulse betraying him. And continuing to betray him.

Yet, never one to back down, Jackson covered his fork this time, his unwavering gaze still searing inches above his chin. It stayed that way, with the exception of a vicious crinkle. Meanwhile, Stiles forced himself not to inch toward his obvious chub at the same time Jackson laid the fork on his tongue, pulling with his taste buds rather than biting down. 

Could he be misinterpreting the vibes, the heated constriction around his chest? Especially after a dinner of two-sided gripes, threatening glimmers, and under the table kicking. He readjusted himself finally, resigning to the knowledge that cake would never look the same. 

Another dueling cackle echoed behind the door, but neither of them bothered to break away.

Suddenly, Jackson spread wider, the fabric bulging higher and higher, at this point wrapping paper for his dick. Even with his face fifty degrees heated, Stiles reaffirmed his poker face, readying himself as Jackson reaching down, free hand trailing down his thigh. But, he bypassed the only thing to left to grip in that moment, not that Stiles’s wasn’t breathing easier for it. In all, it made him more distrustful. If Jackson wasn’t reaching for his dick, what other freaky shit did he have in his possession?

Mere seconds later and out from under his legs came another fork, identical to the one still tangled under his tongue.

“Why don’t you not be a virgin and join me.”

Stiles eyed the scene, eyebrows flying beneath his too long hair. So much of that…the offer, the words, the rasp, the cream…too much to handle on an already overwhelming situation.

“Ughfh n-o, I meant-” For the first time in his life, he got to enjoy Jackson sputter, ears reddening, a trilled wince, certainly a beautiful sight for someone still fellating a fork. Tonight was all about the firsts and he was fucking here for it. After he failed to pair more than five words, Stiles snorted, putting him out of his misery. 

“I know what you meant,” he snatched the fork and added with a spear, “but what you said? Clearly they’re some latent desires you need to work through.”

Jackson grumbled, “Fuck you, Stilinski,” eliciting a backwards laugh from him. 

“I’m sure you want to.” Wiggling eyebrows, he enjoyed his first bite of cheesecake, the groan to follow a natural progression and nothing to do with their current position.

Jackson struck his leg out, so close to striking Stiles in the gonads if he hadn’t dodged back, “I will honestly kill you-”

“–with your dick!” Niblets of Tiramisu tried to escape as giggles quaked through his shoulders and torso, growing more violent the sourer Jackson’s face grew.

“Boys, behave!!” Both of their fathers bellowed at once, effectively simmering Stiles to a hushed snicker and Jackson to a muted thunder. Not a single remorse, he smirked at Jackson channeling his anger into an angry swig of port. Knowing their fathers were listening definitely stifled some of the fun, so all he could do was map his way across the delicious, delicious cheesecake Jackson had so kindly gifted him.

He couldn’t remember a time when it was only the two of them alone, beside the Argent-Peter big-bad-wolf fiasco. At the time, he’d been too terrified for his livelihood and (he supposed, by proxy) Jackson’s to consider what the two of them had in common enough to talk about. Which he shared to the uncooperative chew of Jackson's mouth. 

Not lacrosse, thanks to Jackson quitting for the swim team after he’d spent his summer in London. Definitely not the supernatural, he’d like at least one day when those horrors didn’t plague him. However, hey both knew he couldn’t last more than a minute without opening his mouth, unless someone or something was metaphorically/physically filling it. Therefore, he left it up to chance.

“What’s with you and Lydia?” They could work with that.

Except, said conversation partner closed his eyes, his petty huff filling the bubble encapsulating them, “What’s with you and that coyote chick?”

Stiles bristled, also not something he wanted to think about, “None of your business.”

“Exactly.” Silence returned. At least, Stiles attempted a cordial conversation, a feat Jackson couldn’t claim for himself. “She thought I was cheating…” Or not.

Stiles chewed on that for a moment, not surprised by the information. A month or so back, Lydia took him to Peet’s Coffee and bought him a _‘gawd-awfull’_ Cinnamon Roll AND a caramel macchiato to talk through the possibility at length, complete with a sprinkle of undried tears. Length being until the cafe closed but once she crossed the shop’s threshold, she hadn’t mentioned it again. Yeah, he knew the information. But, the admission, that shocked him. Curiously, he followed with, “Were you?”

Jackson’s nose scrunched, “Do you think I could if I wanted to? I’m not stupid.”

“Eh, debatable.” He shrugged, shaking his head at himself. 

Rather than show offense, Jackson pulled another swig from the bottle and offered it over, “I have a 3.89 GPA. That’s two points higher than yours.”

Stiles accepted, “You keeping tabs on me?” He wiggled the near empty glass in time with his eyebrows.

“Know thy enemy.”

“Wow, Beyoncé and Sun Tzu in one night. I’m floored.” The comeback granted him the thinnest beginning of a grin, too minute for Stiles to verbalize, but large enough to call a win. Instead, he spared them both and barreled on, an admission for an admission. “Malia liked to dominate.”

“So?” One blink. Then, two.

He sighed; since they already crossed several lines tonight, he might as well, “She left bruises…everywhere. Miss Morrell noticed and called my dad, multiple times,” he paused, then rose back on his heels, “in one week.”

Of course, that would get a rumbling laugh out of him. One of those Jackson-lunchroom-a-kid-just-tripped-over-air-and-dropped-his-tray cackles Stiles had heard too frequently, mostly because they’d been directed at him. Once the amusement finally simmered, Jackson added, “Only you would complain about a hot person in your bed.”

“Person?” he wondered, from the way even the fridge’s hum froze, he realized aloud.

“I don’t assume.” Jackson held his eyes for a beat, swallowing thickly. He hadn’t really felt their proximity until now, not when the closeness helped land jabs. If you took away the crackling animosity, Jackson perched on the island, thighs _still_ spread, Stiles’s hip and hands centimeters from clothed skin, and a third of cream and cake between them felt too exposing, intimate. Really, now would’ve been a great time to step away.

“It wouldn’t be a problem in moderation,” he added, despite knowing the underlining meaning in his response, despite doing the opposite of stepping away.

Only to himself did he relish the cadence that was Jackson’s snort, his fork clattering to the marble as he released it, “You wouldn’t know the meaning of moderation if you wrote it 1000x times.”

“And you would?” Cause his house, his clothes, his car, his words, even his ex-girlfriend said otherwise.

Quirking his right upper lip, Jackson leaned over the remnants of their cake, his fingertips snaking behind Stiles’ hip as he yanked, “Guess we finally found something in common, huh?”

Even though he rolled his eyes, fell into Jackson’s legs with a disinterested _humph,_ his palms scrambled for something to grab hold of, finally spanning across the tops of his smooth fabric and warm thighs. “You’re tipsy.”

“Didn’t you hear, Kanima-werewolf hybrids don’t get tipsy,” he muttered, lips feathering a trail from Stiles’ cheek to his curve of his ear, setting off a sudden tingle through him that couldn’t be brushed away with a shiver. “But horny? We get that a lot.”

“Another thing we have in common,” Stiles' lips moved without permission, right along a schedule other than his own as his hands, pulling his shirt from the clutches of his belt until the barrier between Jackson’s back and Stiles’ fingers grew nonexistent.

“Look, There is God.” 

Stiles' smirk built to a smile as his tongue darted to his lips, “Amen.”

He tilted slightly, praying Jackson hadn’t hidden a camera or cameras in the room, that he'd get to school on Monday with tales of how Jackson scored with the twitchy maybe-virgin. Then again, with the ‘fuck me’ squint in Jackson’s gleam and those socked toes wiggling against his stupid pants, Stiles was willing to risk it.

The instant surrender from their decade long dance, of always admiring but never doing, two masculine “OHHHHs” pierced the other room, halting him with the ghost imprint of Jackson on his lips. On a groan, they separated.

“Follow me,” Jackson hopped down, the entire length of his body brushing against Stiles’s, boner proudly on display. Leaving the now forgotten cake and the empty bottle untouched, Jackson led him with a hand gripped on his shirt. He reminded himself not to complain about church with his Babcia the next time she visited, because blessings were raining abundance tonight. An uninhibited, interested, _sober_ Jackson? Before tonight, he thought he'd have a better chance of seeing Rudolph the night before christmas. Like the sucker he was, Stiles trailed after him.

“Going upstairs!” Jackson called as they passed the main hallway, thankfully out the view of where their parentals’ lounged.

A beat later, Mr. Whittemore flipped back, “Keep the fighting to a minimum, please!”

Jackson’s grip on him tightened, blunt fingernails raking over his abs. Similar to Malia and yet, not at all. He bit back a whimper, knowing Jackson would only have teasing retorts to respond to it. Instead, he snickered, “Should you tell ‘em or I?”

“You do, you’re dead.”

“Pre-orgasm?” he pouted, “What a sad fucking way to go, literally. Or, not, I suppose.”

“Shut up,” Jackson shoved him up the final three stairs, giving him point 0.0 seconds to take in his surroundings. Call it curiosity. He fell into an open door at the end of the bare hall, stray shoes almost tripping him up without lights to rely on. He could hear huffs in the room before a dimmer sprayed the room in dull rays. “And who said anything about orgasms? You have to earn that privilege.”

“Privilege?” Stiles swung on him, pining his hands against the door, the force also knocking Jackson's head into wood with a satisfying thump. Stiles savored the sight of Jackson’s eyes widening, those sinful hips instinctively seeking Stiles' as he finally realized he wasn't the one in charge here. There was a reason he and Malia near worked out and it had nothing to do with the trophies she left on his body. He ground out, “You started this so until I hear…” His thoughts lost to the urge of seeing if the coffee and blackberries wafting from his neck made with the same exhilarating taste. Answer: unless that taste was salt, it didn’t but that hadn’t stopped him from fitting his mouth over the juncture of his neck anyway. _What were they talking about? Right_ , “…otherwise dude the privilege is already mine.”

“Don’t call me dude,” Jackson said back, lamely if he might add, but Stiles said not a thing, his mouth too busy being dragged down into Jackson’s kiss, fifty steps past tentative like they’d done this more than once. Another shocking observation tonight better saved for later in the privacy of his rooms, curtains drawn, laptop shoved away and dick in hand.

For now, he’d enjoy the real thing-–explore the strange mix of stuffing, wine, and sugar on Jackson’s tongue. Move against him in a fight he didn’t think possible, palms burning through clothes Jackson kissing him like all the times he’d witnessed him kiss Lydia. Delving slow, exploring like the rest of them weren’t in the room, as if Jackson could never find anyone more intoxicating than her. Only, Stiles wasn’t a 5 foot 4' petal of brains and wit; he was every bit taller, thicker, and rougher--an unapologetic promise of the fantasies to come. 

Despite all of it, Jackson hadn’t released him a second, rather clung tighter, his fingers pushing past the hem of Stiles's pants, desperate. Stiles wondered how fast he could take this from hands roaming over cloth to pants rucked around their ankles or if their limited time even permitted them that.

“Off, off,” he was willing to push it, fighting with the button of those emerald deathtraps. Rather than help him unbuckle like a human being, Jackson tore, the sound of tightly-wound cotton ripping through the room. “ _Dayum_ ,” shuttered out of him. He wasted not a second dipping his fingers through the slit of his boxers, having loss every sliver of restraint in him. He wanted this, could feel that same want in Jackson pulsing under his fingers, threatening to destroy the lining in his boxers already. 

“Stiles, you ready to head out? I have late shift tonight.”

Shattered, he threw his head back, for once his exasperation uncharacteristically on display, “Oh nowww, he has a shift.’

Perhaps it was the emergence of dicks, but Jackson slumped away from him, back curved against the door with a harsh scoff, one he hadn’t known existed when he shielded himself behind their doorframe before dinner. “Guess the privilege’s not all yours, huh?”

Stiles gaped, literal mouth drawn open until finally, a unrestrained laugh knocked into him, “Oh screw you.”

Faster than he could protest, Jackson swooped up the closest pair of shorts, the significance of their position at the base of his hamper not lost on him. After jumping into them, his hand smacked Stiles' bare chest, “There’s always Christmas.”

His dad yelled his name again down below and if that didn’t deflate his boner, the first creak of staircase certainly did. Rushing, he yelled a quick, “coming,” despite not having the opportunity to do anything of the sort. Dark eyes, Stiles leaned in once more, this kiss slower than all the others, his intent laid bare, “Fuck Christmas. Your ass better be under my tongue within the hour.”

Stiles supposed Jackson's reluctance to peel himself away was the only confirmation he'd get. He decided it'd have to be enough for now, trilling one last time under the rough flat of Jackson's tongue against his still exposed clavicle, “We’ll see how I feel after I kick you out," then literally kicking Stiles down the first step.

He glared his way down to the second floor, Jackson brushing against him until he watched Stiles's descend to the first by himself. Neither of their dads paid them much attention, too busy drawing up future plans. “Within. the. hour, assface. Come prepared,” he gritted under his breath, perfect volume for werewolf-kanima hybrids.

“Yeah, Yeah,” and then a little louder, “Later, Mr.Stilinski! Thanks for _coming_.” Cruel, vile human.

“You too, Jackson," his dad called back as the front door began to close, returning them to the same position nearly four hours prior.

Stiles swore, just to spite him, Jackson’s voice reigned down a final time as the door gave a final click: “I intend to!”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! That kitchen scene was some of the most entertaining writing I've had in awhile. 
> 
> Loved to hear your thoughts below! ;P


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